The Least Story Ever Told

It's human to believe
"Humans are the scapegoats
Of the gods," or the gods
Of us, or the serpent.
Not imagination,
Language, not even games

Can define us so well,
So necessarily,
And so sufficiently
As the need to attach
Blame, blame for everything.
Surely, someone's to blame.

A bug that looks like bark
Lands on a sunny cloth
Imported from somewhere
That excels in textiles,
Transported by networks
Of tankers, trains, trailers,

And exchanged for credit,
Which is belief, is trust.
The beetle trusts nothing
And has no one to blame.
Thus we need a fable,
"The Beetle and the Shirt,"

In which gods love textiles
And beetles make mistakes.
Only then there's meaning
To a life in which beetles
Devour imported shirts.
Sometimes, sin's sacrifice
Improperly observed.

Sometimes, the wonder tale
Evades explanation.
One is truth. One is faith.
These brothers make no sense
When either one's honest.
Sometimes, sin's nakedness.
The beetle flies away.